


In Your Own Time

by Veilder



Series: In Medias Res [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (and a smidgen of angst), 5+1, Connor & CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60 & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, Domestic Fluff, Everyone's First Birthday, Families of Choice, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), RK Bros 4 Life, References to Canonical Character Death, References to Pre-Canon Events, Sumo is a good boy, Warning: Sixty, What makes a day a birthday for an android? (And other existential questions)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-16 11:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19648777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veilder/pseuds/Veilder
Summary: Five days the Anderson family celebrates the life they still have ahead of them and one day they remember the one who's gone on ahead.





	In Your Own Time

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhhhh, hello! Yes, it is me! Finally updating this series! XD
> 
> This was written as part of the Birthday Big Bang over on the Detroit: New ERA server! It's turning one year old today so we all decided to have a little themed celebration for it! And what better way for a fanfic discord to celebrate than with... fanfic? (Edit: 11/12/19 I am no longer a part of the server, but if you'd like to join, you can find links in a lot of great stories!)
> 
> Many thanks to my artist partner in this, animatedCola! (check them out [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/animatedCola/pseuds/animatedCola)) Their artwork is so vibrant and colorful! ♥
> 
> This _is_ a part of my series but you by no means have to read the first few entries to understand, this works as a oneshot. Hope you all enjoy! With any luck, I'll be able to update this series again sooner than this last time! u^_^

Connor chose the 15th of August.  
  
He and Hank were sitting at home watching a crime drama that Connor had been banned from deconstructing when the subject of birthdays arose. (“Perhaps ‘birthday’ is not an appropriate word to use in reference to an android, Lieutenant?” “Don’t get all fussy with me, kid, you know what I mean. And for fuck’s sake, don’t call me by title when we’re off the clock, how many times do I need to tell ya?”)  
  
“It’s the date of my first mission, Hank,” Connor said when he asked. “And the date in which I logged my first bit of software instability.”  
  
The older man raised an eyebrow. “Software instability?”  
  
“Yes, the… the code responsible for deteriorating the firewall keeping me from deviating. It was only through continuous software instability that I was able to tear through it in the end.” The android looked away for a moment, lost and staring into the middle distance as if his memory were as faulty as a human’s. “It was… a hostage negotiation,” Connor said at last. “That first public case of a deviant gone rogue. I was called in to minimize casualties, to try and rescue the hostage the deviant had taken.” Absentmindedly, he pulled out his quarter and began running it along his knuckles. “I regret many things that happened that night but… there was a fish.”  
  
Hank had, of course, heard about the incident but he hadn’t realized _Connor_ had been involved in it all. The whole thing was played up on every news channel for weeks after it happened and the DPD had fielded an even larger number of calls than usual coming in from scared citizens asking them to check up on their androids. It had all been a massive inconvenience at the time with Hank being blearily called in at all hours to do grunt work for their overwhelmed patrol officers. (It’d made an impact on him because for almost a week, he’d been too busy to drink himself into oblivion every night.)  
  
All that being said, he honestly had no idea what Connor was going on about and so helpfully inquired, “Fish?”  
  
Connor nodded. “Scientific name: _Trichogaster lalius,_ better known as a dwarf gourami. A tropical fish native to Pakistan, India and Bangladesh. The victims owned a tank of them that had been damaged in the deviant’s initial attack.” His hands stopped their conditioned motions and he looked back up directly into Hank’s eyes. “That was my first time being outside of CyberLife Tower. My very first assignment. And yet even then, I— I stopped. I paused in my mission to save the fish that had fallen from the crack in the tank.”  
  
The poor kid looked a tad bit overwhelmed by his reminiscence but Hank just grinned at him. “Leave it to you, Connor. Fresh from the factory and already giving a shit. Can’t say I’m surprised, though.”  
  
Connor had the audacity to look startled at those words. “You’re not?”  
  
“Kid, you’ve been doing whatever the hell you wanted since the very moment we first met,” Hank deadpanned.  
  
“I was merely adhering to my mission parameters—”  
  
“Bullshit. Did your mission parameters tell you to protect that android in the interrogation room? Or to let those Traci’s go? Or to save my idiot self from falling off that building?” He gave a self-deprecating smirk. “If I hadn’t had my head shoved so far up my ass, I’d’ve been able to see it right from the start; you’re a good person, Connor. This just proves that you have been from the very beginning.”  
  
There was something to be said for how lifelike CyberLife managed to make their androids. The way Connor’s eyes shone with such emotion and the subtle microexpressions pulling at his face really highlighted just how alive he was. No machine could display so much depth of feeling. “Thank you, Hank,” he said, sincerity shining through every syllable.  
  
“Don’t mention it, kid. Just pointing out the obvious to the supercomputer here.” And they both gave a quiet chuckle.  
  
The two watched the rest of the show in a warm, companionable silence. Connor even managed to refrain from blurting out the murderer’s identity until the last ten minutes, a new record for him.  
  
And when Hank retired to bed for the night and was seen off with a, “Goodnight, dad,” he couldn’t help but smile.  
  
“Goodnight, son.”  
  
And that was that.  
  
______________________  
  
  
When August the 15th rolled around some months later and Connor was presented with a brand new fish tank with two dwarf gourami happily swimming in it, he was, for once, speechless.  
  
It was worth all the trouble of getting the damn thing set up when his son hugged him tight.  
  
“Happy Birthday, Connor.”  
  
And happy, it certainly was.  
  
  
  
  
  
_____________________  
  
  
  
Sixty’s choice was… a little more unorthodox.  
  
“Look kid, I’m not sure it works like that.” Hank’s face was stretched into a rictus of dismay as he stared down his adopted son. “People usually only have one birthday.”  
  
The two of them were down at the Riverwalk. Sixty liked to come here to “ _watch the seagulls shit on people_.” (His words, not Hank’s.) The older man thought it was more that he was a people-watcher. He liked seeing how regular folks interacted and went about their day and no one would spare the oddly-dressed android a second glance down here at such a tourist-y hotspot.  
  
And yes, he had to specify the “oddly-dressed” comment because this crazy idiot had on some of the most garish clothing Hank had ever seen. And that was coming from _him_ , with his fondness for loud shirts. Today, Sixty was sporting a lime green tracksuit jacket zipped all the way up in the late-spring heat, zebra print leggings with jean shorts, and sturdy, leather combat boots. He completed his ensemble with a ridiculous straw hat atop his head. He looked like a damn thrift store had chewed him up and spit him back out and Hank didn’t know whether to be proud or horrified.  
  
The walking amalgamation of mayhem spoke up. “ _Most_ people, yes. What, am I not allowed to? What about the King?”  
  
Talking to Sixty was always a bit of a trip. Hank was already completely lost. “Okay, Six, you’re gonna have to explain yourself on that one.”  
  
He huffed, scuffing his shoe along the ground like a recalcitrant toddler being told it’s time to go home from the park. “The _King_ , Hank! Of _England?!_ Ring any bells?”  
  
The two were now just standing in the middle of the walkway, staring each other down. Hank crossed his arms and scowled. “Don’t get snippy with me, kid. Just tell me what the fuck the _King of England_ has to do with your goddamn birthday?!”  
  
“Because, _Hank_ , the date the King celebrates his birthday is not the day he was actually born on.” He was mirroring Hank now, arms crossed and scowl in place. “It’s a tradition started back in 1748 by King George II because he was born in a shitty time of year and his parents wanted a parade for him.”  
  
Okay… So, Hank guessed he wasn’t really up to snuff with U.K. royal traditions because this was all news to him. “So… what? You wanna have two birthdays because the monarch of a country you’ve never even been to is allowed to?”  
  
Sixty nodded. “Yes.”  
  
And that, Hank supposed, was that. “Well, who am I to argue with _that_ logic. Alright, Your Majesty. Two birthdays.”  
  
It wasn’t very often that Hank got to see an unironic smile on his middle son’s face but here and now? Yeah, grinning like a fool. Hank smiled back and said, “I’m almost scared to ask but… that whole thing you were going on about earlier with the… ‘ _most explosive day of the year’_ talk… That wouldn’t have anything to do with—”  
  
“Fourth of July and New Year’s, Pops! Those will be my birthdays! Gotta go out with a bang, right?”  
  
Oh, this kid. Ridiculous in so many ways, from his constant one-upmanship with Connor to his fashion sense. Hank wouldn’t trade him for anything. “Sure do, Sixty. Sure do.”  
  
_____________________  
  
  
His first birthday came a little over a month later which technically made him older than Connor. (Or, at least, that’s what he kept telling everyone as he went about enthusiastically announcing his birthday[s] to the world.) Just another tally on the two’s long list of rivalries.  
  
Hank took the boys out to the lake to watch the fireworks and the awe in all three of their eyes was worth the drive. As was their laughter when he presented Sixty with his gift, a wide, yellow tie with a cartoon crown on it and the words “King for a Day!” written in teal bubble letters. Six immediately put it on over his camo jacket and purple pants with suspenders. It looked terrible.  
  
“Looking good, kid,” Hank said with a smirk. “Happy birthday.”  
  
They watched the lights flash in bursts overhead for as long as the event lasted, and then they drove out even further so Six could shoot off his own.  
  
A happy birthday, indeed.  
  
_______________________  
  
  
Nines was having trouble choosing.  
  
“You don’t have to think of it as a birthday, kiddo. Maybe more like… a day to celebrate you being alive.”  
  
He and Hank were sitting at the kitchen table on a lazy Saturday morning, Hank eating “breakfast” (if this bowl of heart-healthy slop that Connor insisted on buying could even be considered food) and Nines indulging his favorite hobby, sketching the display of fruit in the middle of the table. (Another Connor special. Kid was like his damn nanny, he swears.) Neither Hank nor Nines were the chattiest of people, particularly before Hank had had at least two cups of coffee, and so their regular morning routine suited them both perfectly.  
  
Well, most days, anyway.  
  
Nines looked across the fruit bowl at him, those icy, blue eyes piercing. He’d never quite managed to lose the intensity he had been manufactured with and, though Hank would never admit this out loud, that penetrating gaze could be quite intimidating. (Good thing Hank knew what a big softie his youngest was.) “I have found that every day I am able to function is a reason to celebrate being alive. Why is it so important that I set one aside specifically?” Nines still had trouble emoting, the stiff faceplates he had installed not designed for nuance, but Hank could read his confusion in the small downturn of his lips and the minute squint of his eyes.  
  
But he still considered his question carefully as he stuffed another spoonful of tasteless fiber into his mouth. “Well, son,” he said, gesturing with his spoon, “I like your outlook. It’s really— It’s really great that you’re able to take each day as a gift like that.  
  
“I guess for humans it’s more like… It’s a big accomplishment, being born. There’s a lot of shit that can go wrong and it’s a big damn deal, bringing a new life into the world. There’s a lot of emotion involved in the whole process, y’know?” Hank could almost feel that emotion all over again as the memories of being handed his newborn son resurfaced. He thought of Cole, so small and fragile, screaming his little lungs out to the world but quieting down as he clasped his father’s finger. The thoughts of his boy were always something of a gut-punch but… Hank looked over at those worried blue eyes, so mechanical yet so alive. The memories didn’t hurt as much anymore, not when he had so much to live for these days.  
  
Hank cleared his throat and shook off the reminiscence. “It’s also an age thing,” he said. “Humans put a lot of emphasis on that sorta shit so it’s just practical to keep track of it on one specific day. And you need an actual birthdate for just about every goddamn form under the sun, from job applications to signing up for a gift card. So there’s that, too.”  
  
Nines was looking thoughtful. “I see. I have a great enthusiasm for practicality. (“Yeah, no shit.”) And the effort of concentrating all your positive emotions of being alive on one certain day seems like it would be efficacious in the long run, especially considering the advanced number of years a human might live to.”  
  
Hank snorted. “Well, not all of us can be self-sufficient wonders of technology at under a year old, Nines.”  
  
The android quirked his lips in the approximation of a smile. “I suppose I am just talented, Hank.” Oh, sarcasm. Heh, he was raising this boy up right. The two shared a chuckle.  
  
But Nines continued after a moment. “I have considered the matter, honestly. And I have spoken to my brothers about it. Sixty inferred that I am a fool and should choose April 1st. Connor was more helpful. He said I ought to find a day that is significant to me personally. But I… I cannot seem to reach a consensus on what that might be.”  
  
Hank, having given up on forcing down more of that cardboard posing as food, scooted his bowl to the side and rested his chin on his hand. “Alright, well, walk me through it. Maybe we can brainstorm this together, eh? What’re some of those significant days for you, kid?”  
  
Nines didn’t even hesitate. “November 11th, the day of my awakening and the day I met my brothers. November 12th, the day you allowed myself and Sixty into your home. February 9th, the ratification of the Android Civil Rights Act of 2039. February 10th, the date I was allowed to join the DPD and the date of my first case. March 1st, the first time you called me ‘son.’ March 24th, the first time I called you ‘father’.”  
  
Hank blinked. “Oh.” And he wouldn’t even pretend to not be moved by how many of those dates included him. His youngest was a goddamn sweetheart.  
  
But Nines was still looking troubled. “You see my dilemma, then. I already have a great number of personally significant days and it is only April. How could I possibly choose?”  
  
“Yeah, kid, I see your point. I guess _technically_ November 11th is your ‘birthday,’ if you wanna look at it like that. But that’s also—”  
  
“Android Emancipation Day, yes. A significant national holiday.”  
  
“And you wouldn’t wanna have your birthday be on a national holiday, now would ya?”  
  
Nines managed to give him the most deadpan look ever conceived. “I am not Sixty, Hank.”  
  
And Hank couldn’t help the full belly-laugh he gave at that little dig. Oh, _definitely_ raising this boy right. “Damn straight, Nines.”  
  
Hank got up then to put his dishes away and get a fresh cup of coffee. Sumo had lumbered his way into the kitchen at that point and had contented himself with resting his big, drooly head on Nines’ lap. The android was smiling as he petted the large dog, that small upturn of his lips that would be a gregarious grin on anyone else.  
  
And Hank got to thinking… Nines was already so much the product of his limitations. The circumstances of his activation were screwy as fuck and Hank knew for a fact that he sometimes felt alienated from other androids by his differences. But still, he had never bothered to replace any of his non-standard parts. “This is who I am, Hank,” he had told him during a long night of introspection. “I may not be uniform in my design… but I am a complete android, no matter my faults. I sometimes lament my differences but— But they are what make me who I am.”  
  
Hank sipped at his coffee as he leaned up against the counter. “Hey, Nines,” he spoke up eventually. “How about we think about this in a whole ‘nother direction? What about your serial number?”  
  
The android raised his eyebrows (another difference in him; those stiff facial plates didn’t allow him to raise just one eyebrow like his predecessors). “My serial number? It is the same as Connor and Sixty’s.”  
  
Hank shook his head. “Yeah, but not the end of it. And not your model number, either. Isn’t that why you’re called ‘Nines’ in the first place?”  
  
The android continued petting Sumo. “Sixty named me that based off my model number, yes. But what exactly are you proposing?”  
  
“Just that… you’re -87, right?” Hank waited for him to nod before continuing. “So you could choose a date based off of that. August 7th?”  
  
Nines’ eyebrows rose up again. “I see. That is a sound suggestion.”  
  
“Or, I mean… The obvious one is September 9th, right? 9/9? Y’know, _nines_ ?”  
  
The kid was smiling again. “Hank, this is a wonderful idea. You have managed to narrow down my choices by a significant margin. Perhaps… Perhaps I might be able to decide, now.”  
  
Hank just grinned. “Just glad I could help, son.”  
  
Nines stood from his chair, grabbing up his sketchbook and gently moving Sumo out of the way. “Yes, thank you! You have been a tremendous help!” And then, he used those long legs of his to cross over to where Hank was leaning and, taking care not to spill his drink, wrapped his arms around the older man. “I appreciate your insight, father. I will let you know what I decide.”  
  
Hank quickly set his coffee on the counter and hugged his boy back. “Anytime, son. Looking forward to your birthday bash.”  
  
  
_____________________

Nines’ first birthday rolled around five months later on September 9th.  
  
The youngest Anderson was never much one for fuss and so his celebration was held at home, a quiet family affair but one bursting with enthusiasm. Both Connor and Sixty were eager to welcome their little brother to the ranks of their one-year-old selves and they had decorated the house with an alarming number of banners, streamers, balloons and all sorts of other party store ornamentation. Not to mention all the fucking glitter. Everything in the house was gonna sparkle for months after this. Poor Sumo.  
  
Connor and Sixty were almost vibrating out of their seats when the time for presents came. Hank and the boys beckoned Nines down the hallway, past the addition where each of their rooms were now located, and further on down to what was planned to be a storage room. It had been divided, a new door inset in the middle between shelves and boxes. They’d taken care not to let on about their secret renovation in the past couple months. It was worth it as they watched Nines gaze into his new art studio.   
  
Connor had asked Markus himself to help them with this project and the place was fully-stocked with the finest supplies, separate stations set up for painting or sculpting, a comfortable chair installed beside one of the windows where Nines could sketch to his heart’s content. They’d even had a few of his own pieces framed and they hung at intervals along the far wall. It was a place he could fully express himself, going far beyond the limitations of his design.  
  
“Happy Birthday, kid,” Hank said, even as Nines turned, stoic face bursting with emotion, and enfolded all three of them into a tight hug.   
  
Hank held his sons close and celebrated being alive with them.

  
____________________________

Sumo was born on June 30, 2034.   
  
He’d been nothing more than a big ball of fluff and drool back then, curious and excitable as most pups were. The minute Hank stepped out the back door of Mrs. Dobreshki’s suburban home, the little scamp has come running Hank’s way along with the rest of his litter. Hank remembered just how exhilarating it had been, being bombarded by this pack of enthusiastically yipping St. Bernard pups.  
  
Sumo, though, he’d held back. He let his rougher siblings push their way forward and eagerly awaited his turn, poised on his haunches and tail wagging a mile a minute.   
  
Hank thought that might be what won him over in the end.  
  
Because this dog, it wasn’t for him. This dog would be for his son, an unassuming, polite boy slated to celebrate his fifth birthday in only a few months. His name was Cole and he liked to draw and watch cartoons and pretend he was an android. He was shy and creative and the best thing that'd ever happened to Hank.   
  
His little man had been pestering him for weeks now about getting a dog. Hank has made the mistake of letting him watch a new show that followed the adventures of “Sumo the Snowdog and his Furry Friends!” and now the kid wouldn’t stop reciting St. Bernard facts at him every chance he got.  
  
  
_“Daddy! Daddy! Did you know that St. Bernard’s get their name from a famous mountain pass? A pass is like a road, daddy. Because mountains don’t know how to pass like a car.”_ _  
__  
__“Hah, right you are, Coleslaw. Where’d you hear all that?”_ _  
__  
__“They said in the show! Sumo saved a man from a mountain pass!”_ _  
__  
__“Did he really? Wow, that sounds exciting.”_ _  
__  
__“It was, it was! C’mon, daddy! We can watch it again and you can see!”_  
  
  
It’d been a no-brainer in the end. Having a dog around would be good for him and it’s not like Hank minded. He hadn’t had a dog in years but he loved the damn things.  
  
He looked over at the gentle pup again before scooping him up in his arms. “Whaddaya say, little fella? Think you might like to keep a human boy company?”  
  
The fluff ball gave a squeaky little yip and leaned up to lick his chin. Hank took that as a definite yes.  
  
He turned back to where Mrs. Dobreshki was standing. “Alright, ma’am, how much are we looking at for me to take this one off your hands?”  
  
  
_______________________

  
  
On Sumo’s first birthday Hank took the day off.  
  
Cole has been pestering him for almost two weeks now, asking if they could take Sumo out to their favorite lake up north of the city for his birthday. The big dog loved running around the area and splashing in the water and Cole was always right there with him, sprinting for all his short legs were worth.  
  
Hank had brought all the fixings for a little picnic and was busy cooking up some hot dogs on one of the public grills. The day was surprisingly temperate for so late in June, a little reprieve from the scorching inferno of a Midwestern summer.  
  
They sang Sumo _Happy Birthday_ together and presented him with his own special doggy cake Hank had picked up from the pet store.  
  
Today, Hank wasn’t surrounded by muggers and murderers. Today, he wasn’t staring down a crime scene and contemplating how shitty people could be. No, today he had his son and his dog with him in the warm, summer air.  
  
He couldn’t have been happier.  
  
  
_______________________  
  
  
  
Henry Michael Anderson was born September 6, 1985.  
  
He couldn’t remember it of course, but, as he would soon find out, there were still some of his baby pictures floating around in the box of old photo albums in the attic.  
  
He and the boys had been doing some spring cleaning when he unearthed these ink and paper relics and it didn’t take long for his combined curiosity and nostalgia to win out. One of the largest albums sat at the top, the worn, faux-leather binding still well-intact. He fished it off the stack, fighting off the waves of dust that billowed up at its disturbance. Opening the cover, he was greeted with a faded image; he gave a chuckle as he stared down at his parents holding his grumpy, screaming self with the prideful smiles only the uninitiated could display.   
  
His mother, Elizabeth “Betsy” Jeane Anderson, née Lambert, was a handsome, tired-looking brunette with a stern bearing but a kind heart. Cole had inherited her coloration and Hank bitterly regretted that she’d never been able to meet her only grandchild. His father, Mitchell “Mitch” Dean Anderson, showed his long life of physical labor in his calloused hands and his tanned skin. Hank had been his little clone growing up, two blond-haired, blue-eyed Anderson boys. His parents had both been forty years old when they’d brought their first and only child into the world one rainy autumn morning. A bit later than average to start a family but they never regretted it. (Though, his mother never let him forget what a handful he was whenever he [frequently] found himself in trouble. Hank was always unendingly grateful that his own son didn’t inherit that same rambunctiousness.)  
  
Betsy Anderson had been a teller at the local Citizens Bank for as long as Hank could remember and she always brought him home a candy or two as an after-dinner treat. His father worked at a factory designing mufflers for the auto companies. He put in long, thankless shifts but he’d been a happy man who’d doted on his small family and always tried to save up for vacations.   
  
Hank would be fifty-four years old this week. He always missed his folks the most when his birthday rolled around but…   
  
When Tuesday morning came and he found himself looking up at his sons who had, once again, gone all out with the decorations — this time in the breakroom at work — he felt closer to his mom and dad than he had in a long time. Maybe… maybe he’d bring those old albums down from the attic after all..

  
___________________

  
  
Hank Anderson’s first birthday was either a great success or a great disaster.  
  
His family’s little, suburban house was packed with aunts and uncles, friends and neighbors and the unholy chaos that only a pack of small children could bring.   
  
In the midst of it all, his mother picked little Hank up off the floor from where he’d pulled his slice of cake off the table, pressing a kiss to his messy, frosting-covered cheek as he grinned, unrepentant. His dad took the chance to get a candid shot of the two people he loved more than anything.   
  
The photo sat in the aged, old album, nestled in between a picture of him in his high-chair, a party hat strapped to his head, and another of him balancing atop their old chocolate lab, Digger, riding him like a pony.   
  
His parents had passed away fifteen years ago now, but looking down on these relics of his past, his android sons crowded around him to see, he could swear he could still hear them speaking: _“Happy Birthday, Hank-a-roo! Another year gone for you, my little man? What do ya say? Let’s try for another?!”  
  
_And as he gathered his sons in his arms, he thought to himself, _‘Yeah, Mom, Dad. I’ll try for another.”_ _  
__  
_ He was fifty-four years old… and counting.

______________________  
  
  
  
Cole Mitchell Anderson died on October 11, 2035.  
  
For the past three years, it had only ever been Hank making the journey to the cemetery. Oh yeah, he’d had people offer to come with him, people he used to be close to, old friends who he’d since driven away. He’d never taken them up on their offers. This was for his _son_ , goddammit, and for fuck’s sake, he could make the effort to be a father to him one day a year even if he spent the rest of it trying to drown out his memory.  
  
But he _would_ make an effort. He would clean himself up, brushing away the stale taste of booze from his mouth and trimming up his scraggly hair and beard. He’d put on his nicest pair of jeans and a button-down and he’d lament the fact that they almost didn’t fit him and his ever-expanding waistline anymore. He’d journey out at midday, stopping along the way to buy a little bouquet full of daisies and marigolds and asters. He’d trudge his way along the worn stone path til he found the headstone he saw in his nightmares. And he’d sit there in the grass. And he’d talk.  
  
He’d tell his boy all about what had happened that year, about interesting cases that’d come up at work, about how Sumo was doing. He’d speak about anything and everything, droning on and on until the sun was low in the sky and his throat was parched and sore.  
  
He’d tell Cole how much he missed him. How much he loved him. How much he wanted to join him soon.  
  
But this year, 2039, he was not alone. Yeah, he still cleaned himself up good and proper but it wasn’t the sour taste of whiskey coating his teeth these days, it was that god-awful bran shit Connor made him eat to “lower your cholesterol, Hank! We can still get ahead of this before it becomes a serious medical issue!” He’d still trim himself up nice and pretty, though now he had Sixty offering to help him out. “C’mon, old man! You know I’m good with knives! Your ratty hair doesn’t stand a chance!” He still dressed himself in his nicest outfit, though now it was already laid out neatly on his bed, courtesy of Nines. “I had to take the jeans in a bit, Hank. You seem to have lost weight since the last time you wore this particular pair so I went ahead and made the alterations.”  
  
When he went to leave the house at midday, he was accompanied by his sons, all dressed in their finest suits, Connor holding Sumo’s leash. They all piled into the car, though it was a tight squeeze with four adult-sized men and one large dog. But soon enough they were situated and on their way. Hank stopped along the way to get the bouquet which he handed to Nines who held it with a reverent solemnity. And when Hank trudged up that well-worn path toward his goal, he did it accompanied by his family.  
  
“Hi there, little man. It’s been a long time.” The five of them were gathered around the headstone, his android sons no doubt scanning it every which way they could. “It’s been a hell of a year, Coleslaw. Just fuckin coo-coo, y’know? But before I get into all of that, I have a few people I wanna introduce you to.” He gestured over to Connor, Nines and Sixty who were all wearing (and he’d never admit to thinking this) the most adorable expressions of nervousness. He grinned at them all. “I remember you asking me something about a little brother once upon a time. Well, little man, I did you one better: how about three of them?”  
  
Hank reached over and grabbed Connor by the shoulder, bringing him up to stand before the small headstone. “This here is Connor, kid. He’s a real stickler for the rules and he keeps making me eat the grossest shit but he can also do these sick coin tricks so I guess he’s not so bad.” Hank grinned over at him. “He’s got a good heart underneath all that plastic. I know you’d love him, Cole.”  
  
Connor gave Hank a shaky smile, obviously moved by his introduction. He knelt down, reaching out with his bare, white hand to rest it upon the headstone. “Hello Cole. It’s very nice to meet you. Don’t you worry, I’m doing my best to take care of our dad now. I’ll be the eldest while you’re away, you can count on me.” And with that, he rose to his feet and stepped to the side.  
  
Hank was already feeling a little overwhelmed just from that little exchange but he cleared his throat and kept on. “Alright then, Six, you’re next,” he said, beckoning his middle child forth. Sixty approached with an air of respect and staidness usually lacking in his demeanor and he was wringing his hands like a child being called before the principal. “This here is Sixty, Cole. He’s a bit of a troublemaker, this one (“Hey!”), but he keeps us all on our toes. And don’t let that smart mouth of his fool ya, kid; Six loves his family more than anything. He’s really a big softie when you get past all the knives.”  
  
Sixty was sending him some disgruntled scowls now but, just like Connor, he also knelt down and reached out his bare hand. “Big bro, don’t you dare listen to him. Our old man is the troublemaker around here, not me.” He sent a smirk Hank’s way as he said this. “ _Buuuuttttt_ … he’s also right. I love all these bozos here a stupid amount. And that definitely includes you, too. Just wish I could have said as much to you in person.” He gave the headstone a few pats and then stood back up. He moved to go join Connor but, before he could turn completely, he let out one last parting shot: “And you should know, I had my first birthday before Connor, so actually _I’ll_ be the eldest for you, instead!”  
  
Hank could only chuckle as he watched Six go stand next to his brother, Connor sending the other RK800 a dirty look while Sixty just smirked. A bunch of children they were. But he still had one more to introduce and so waved Nines over. The youngest android approached gingerly, taking care where he stepped. He’d handed Sumo’s leash off to Connor as he passed him and shyly passed the bouquet over to Hank as he came to stand at his side. Hank smiled at him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And this here is Nines, Coleslaw. He’s the baby of the family now.” From the sidelines, he thought he heard Sixty snicker at that. “But he loves to draw and paint, just like you used to. I’m sure you would’ve loved coloring with him, little man. And he’s just about the gentlest soul I’ve ever met, Cole. Don’t let the tank they built him as fool you, he’s a real sweetheart.” And now kissy noises coming from Sixty’s direction. (Oh well, at least it was followed up by a dull impact and a quiet cry of, “What the fuck, Connor?!” “Shh! Be quiet!”)  
  
Nines, as usual, was doing a valiant job of ignoring his brother’s shenanigans and had already knelt down just like the other two. “Hello Cole. My name is Nines. My full serial number is RK900 #313 248 317-87 if you wanted to know. I was built to be a combat model but I much prefer living with our brothers and our father and Sumo.” He paused then, seemingly reflecting on what to say next. “I… will be sure to keep the walls stocked with art in your memory. That way, it will be as if you are always with us even when we’re not thinking about you. I hope to visit you more often from here on out.” Nines quirked that barely-there smile of his as he moved away.  
  
Hank looked over at his three living sons and felt so much pride flowing through him. Well, fuck it, he might as well... Hank stepped on over and gathered them all up in his arms. “I’m proud of you, boys. You did great,” he said, pretending like his own eyes weren’t watering as much as Nines’ were. That done, he too knelt before the grave. Sumo came up to sit beside him as he placed the flowers in their holder. “And look who else is here, buddy! Sumo came with me today.” At the sound of his name, Sumo’s tail began thumping against the grassy plot. “Looks like we’ve got the whole family together for once, eh kid? Now, let me just tell you about what a fuckin’ year it’s been—”  
  
And he talked and talked and talked, his sons joining in on relaying events when they could. He talked until his throat was parched (though Connor miraculously pulled a water bottle out from _somewhere_ and handed it to him halfway through) and his back ached from sitting on the ground. He talked until the sun had well-and-truly set and that autumn chill was setting into his bones.  
  
He told him how much he loved him. His brothers told him so, too. And together, the Anderson family celebrated another year gone by.  
  
  
___________________________  
  
  
  
Cole Anderson’s first birthday had been picture perfect.  
  
The late September air was the ideal temperature for a cookout and all the neighbors had been over to celebrate the new Anderson boy getting a year older. Hank was in his element, grilling up a storm and laughing with all the other dads on the back patio. Adrienne had been organizing the side dishes spread all across the fold-out table in the yard. Cole had been toddling all over the place, excited at all the people gathered and ecstatic to have more than one kid around to play in the sandbox with.  
  
And as the evening drew in and the guests began to depart, Hank settled himself down with his wife and his son, so in love with them both he could scarcely stop smiling. He leaned down to lay a kiss on Ade’s hair where she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder. And he looked down at his also-dozing son.  
  
“Happy Birthday, Cole,” he whispered, cradling the boy close to his chest. “I love you, buddy. Forever and ever.”  
  
And he did just that. 


End file.
